


The End of the World

by thedragonaunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Moderate depiction of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonaunt/pseuds/thedragonaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What really happened in Karachi?  How did Sherlock rescue Irene?  Who knows?  But maybe it was like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Waiver: I have never been to Karachi and have no idea what the American Consulate General looks like so the descriptions given here are entirely fictional.
> 
> Author’s note: None of these wonderful characters belong to me but I love them so much I just have to write for them. Thanks to ACD, SM and MG for being geniuses. If I have borrowed their words, I can only say that ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’. I do this for fun, not for profit.

The End of the World  
by  
thedragonaunt  
Imminent death does have a way of sharpening the mind. Not that her life had in any way flashed before her eyes. She had had more than ample time to contemplate the full panorama of her existence during the long, empty hours of her incarceration, in the small, hot, pitch-dark stone edifice that served as her prison. It was completely devoid of any kind of comfort, unless one counted the metal bucket that served as sanitary provision, the small mercy being that it was, at least, emptied every day. Food, too, had been provided, in the form of a bland, sticky, savoury porridge but she could not complain about that either, as this was all her captors ate themselves. And they had provided water for drinking, though not for washing. She was quietly revolted by her own stench and calculated that it must be at least three weeks since she last enjoyed the luxury of a shower. That was when she had been held, briefly, in a town house before being moved, blind-folded for several uncomfortable hours, being shaken about in the back of a lorry, to her present location.  
She had taken the opportunity to review her past life in a calm, detached – perhaps resigned – way and she was mildly surprised to realise that she had few regrets. She had not always made right choices but she had always made good ones – the best of many bad lots, one might say. She was not about to start bemoaning her fate but she could acknowledge that life had been less than kind in the options it had presented. However, she felt she had used what assets she had to their best possible advantage and could feel proud of how much she had achieved, from such disadvantageous beginnings.  
One small regret, perhaps, in hindsight, was the decision to involve the master criminal in her otherwise self-reliant endeavours. But then, she did have all that invaluable information and absolutely no idea how to make profitable use of it. Yes, it had been a necessary risk, going to him. And, of course, the error that had led to the catastrophic failure of her plan really had been hers and hers alone – so no one else to blame for that. He had been so right, the other man. Love is a dangerous emotion and one should NEVER let one’s heart rule one’s head. But she did not regret that either because, for the only time in her life, she had met another human being with whom she felt a genuine connection. Was it love? She wasn’t sure – because she had never experienced love, so she had nothing with which to compare it. But it was ‘something’ and for that she was grateful.  
She had no doubt at all that she had been betrayed. Her captors had known exactly where she would be and they had also known who she was – her name, at least. Again, was it such a good idea to choose an Islamic state as her hiding place, when she had made her living in the sex trade and Islamists, generally, had very fixed views on such matters. But her former ally controlled a vast and complex empire and there were few places one could go in order to escape such an efficient network of spies and informants. And if there is one thing a burqa does provide, it is a degree of anonymity as one moves around in public – so long as one remembers to walk in a certain way and to defer to any male who happens to cross one’s path. She had assumed the persona of the Islamic woman to perfection. She knew she had not made any mistakes so the only possible explanation was betrayal. She had, clearly, at some point, trusted the wrong person. Oh, well. That was a good lesson learned. Such a pity she would not have the opportunity to profit from this new knowledge.  
Her captors had seen her as a business opportunity. As a western woman, travelling alone in an Islamic country, they had assumed that she was either secret service or a journalist. Either way, they thought – wrongly – that she would be worth a healthy ransom to someone. Through the usual channels, they had approached the British Foreign Office. They really should have known better. For a start, the British Government has strict rules about the paying of ransoms – they don’t. It is their belief that the paying of ransoms only encourages the taking of more hostages. They are quite right, of course. Secondly, her captors were not to know that she had a very powerful enemy in the British Government, someone who would be quite happy to let some random Islamist group do his dirty work. When her identity was revealed to him by the Foreign Office representative, he had replied, ‘Let them chop her head off – save us the bother.’  
So, her fate was sealed. The final ‘No deal’ communication had been delivered yesterday and the group leader had decided to cut his losses and get rid of her. She was just a worthless liability, now. Having to maintain a presence in this remote part of Pakistan, in order to keep her whereabouts secret, had been an expensive exercise. The small group of men who constituted her guard did not enjoy living in the middle of nowhere, away from the comforts of home and were beginning to question his leadership. He was pretty keen to get back to civilisation himself. So, the decision had been taken. The chief executioner was sent for. She would be dispatched in the usual way, immediately after sunset prayers, the following day.  
ooOoo  
And here she was, kneeling on the rocky ground, in a circle of illumination provided by the headlamps of the two trucks which had brought them all there – now all packed up and ready to leave, as soon as her body had been disposed of. That would not take much doing. There was to be no burial – the final insult. She would simply be left as carrion for the local buzzards and other wilderness creatures.  
The man who now stood to her right seemed a little agitated. He had been left to guard her whilst the other five members of their group had been observing their rituals. He was probably anxious to get home, too. Whilst they waited, her guard had asked her, rather chivalrously, she thought, if she had any last requests.  
‘Yes’, she had replied. ‘I would like my mobile phone, please, to say goodbye.’  
To her surprise, he had produced it from a pocket under his robes. It was definitely her phone and it was still charged. How very civilised of them, to anticipate that she may wish to mark her passing from this world in this way and to provide the very means with which for her to do so. There was only one person to whom she needed to say goodbye. She punched in the words,  
‘Goodbye, Mr Holmes’,  
and pressed ‘Send’ then switched off the phone and handed it back to her guard.  
The man who was to perform the execution had arrived earlier in the day, by jeep. He had gone to prayers and was now approaching, with long, languid strides, across the rough ground, to perform his grim task, the curved blade held casually at his side. He came up and stood just to her left, very upright, with his feet planted firmly, shoulder-width apart. Grasping the handle with both hands, he moved the blade in a precise arch and gently kissed the back of her neck with the leading edge, identifying the spot where the killer blow would land, then swung the razor sharp instrument behind his right shoulder, in preparation for the ‘money shot’. She was not afraid. She thought, ironically, of Anne Boleyn’s final observation – ‘I have but a little neck’ – and then closed her eyes and waited for oblivion.  
It was then that she heard the sound that caused her eyes to jerk open with surprise. It was her voice, sighing softly, in that provocative way; the sound that she had used to personalise her text alerts on ‘his’ phone; and it was coming from the direction of her executioner. She turned her head sharply and looked up at him. He was back-lit by the lorry headlamps but there was something familiar about his outline. Then he spoke and the rich baritone of his voice was unmistakeable.  
‘When I say ‘run’, run!’  
Everything seemed to happen at once, then. He pivoted to his right and struck, with a slicing blow, the jihadist who had been standing behind him. At the same time, her guard produced a blade from somewhere and proceeded to hack down the man to his left, who had come up to get a closer look at her demise. He went down without even a sound. She was still kneeling on the ground as a sudden roar and a flash of headlamps announced the arrival, into the clearing, of the jeep that, unbeknown to her, had brought her rescuer to the camp that afternoon. The enrobed man in the driving seat spoke urgently, in an American accent.  
‘Get in the jeep!’  
She did not hesitate but scrambled up and jumped into the front passenger seat.  
‘Hold on tight,’  
the driver growled and, spinning the steering wheel, swung the jeep around in a tight circle. As the engine roared and the wheels spun, momentarily, two figures emerged into the glare of the still-shining truck headlamps and jumped into the back seat of the jeep. Then they were all racing away, bouncing wildly across the rough terrain, putting distance between the jeep and the camp. She wondered, absently, who might be left alive to come after them, since there had only been six men in the camp, plus the newcomer, two of whom she had seen dispatched and three of whom were now in the jeep and, clearly, were not really jihadists. However, she was more than in favour of haste. Her adrenalin was up and she found herself grinning insanely as she held on grimly to the grab bar on the dashboard. As they left behind the lights of the trucks in the camp, they were surrounded by pitch black, the only illumination being provided by the lamps of the jeep, as it bucked wildly over the rocky ground. It was impossible to see where they were going. The driver must have been navigating by instinct! Then a rocky outcrop loomed into view and the driver swung the jeep around behind it and killed the engine. The lights went out and the sudden silence was almost deafening.  
No one spoke. They seemed to be waiting for something. She did not ask what. Then, away to her left, she saw a pinpoint of light in the sky. Actually, she suddenly saw that the sky was a mass of pinpoints, all glittering, as they span in their celestial orbits. But one of those bright desert stars seemed to be moving, rather rapidly, toward them. Sure enough, she became aware of a distant rhythmic pulsing which gradually increased in volume as the light resolved itself into the dark shape of a helicopter. As it approached, it banked steeply and then dropped itself, back end first, onto the desert floor.  
‘Go!’  
the driver barked and someone grabbed her arm from behind and practically dragged her out of the jeep and across the intervening ground to the waiting helicopter. She was lifted bodily, around her waist and thrown into the machine. Before she had even stopped rolling, the doors of the plane slammed shut and they were rising into the air. They all lay on the bare floor in the back of the helicopter. Someone had their arm round her and was holding her close, to stop her sliding away as the helicopter banked, turned and flew back the way it had come. It had all happened so fast. It seemed only moments ago that she had been totally resigned to her fate. Now she was being carried away to safety, in the arms of the last person she ever expected to see again, especially since the last time they met, she had humiliated him completely and then he had humiliated her.  
The noise from the engine was deafening so verbal communication was impossible. No body tried to move since, being unrestrained inside a bare metal cylinder travelling at God knows how many miles per hour, flattening oneself to the floor seemed the most sensible option. She could feel his heart thudding into her back and his ribs pushing rhythmically against her. He was clearly experiencing something of an adrenalin rush himself. His heart and breathing rate gradually subsided but the grip of his arm around her stayed tight. She realised she was having a unique experience. For the first time in her entire life, so far as she could remember, she felt safe. She relaxed into him and closed her eyes. Despite the noise and the cramped conditions, and perhaps finally overcome by the stress and deprivation of the weeks of her captivity, she actually fell asleep.  
ooOoo  
‘Miss Adler’.  
The sound of her name, being spoken repeatedly, roused her from a deep, dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes, drowsy and disorientated, and looked around. She was in a large, elegant room, with a high ceiling, hung with a huge central chandelier and supported by classical-style pillars. She was laid on a plush couch, upholstered in blue velvet, her head resting on a silk pillow. She realised that she was the focus of attention for three men, one of whom she recognised as her rescuer, Mr Holmes, and two she had never seen before. She sat up quickly, and then regretted doing so, as her head swam dizzily. Sherlock, who was kneeling beside the couch, still dressed in his desert robes but now bare-headed, put his hand on her shoulder and advised,  
‘Take your time. You’re safe now.’  
She sat up again, more slowly, and swung her feet onto the floor. Sherlock rose from his knees and sat beside her on the couch. The second man, dressed in casual western clothes, spoke in a cultured American accent.  
‘Miss Adler, you are now the guest of the American nation, thanks to your friend, Mr Holmes, here. I appreciate that you have been through a terrible ordeal and may find it hard to take in information at the moment. Also, I expect you would very much like to freshen up a little so, if you would care to go with this gentleman’,  
he indicated the man in indigenous attire who had been standing on the edge of the luxurious Indian rug which covered a large square in the middle of the polished wooden floor,  
‘he will take you to your room. Mr Holmes will be along later to explain the arrangements we have made for your future comfort and security. I hope they are to your satisfaction.’  
The taciturn orderly stepped forward and offered his hand to help her to her feet. She took it and then followed him from the room, still feeling disorientated and a little light-headed but not at all apprehensive. She had no idea what the American - whom she assumed was some sort of attaché, this being (again, she assumed) the Consulate General of the USA in Karachi - had meant by ‘arrangements for your future comfort and security’. But, at that precise moment, she really did not care. She was only thinking about taking a shower, washing her hair and changing her clothes. Then, she imagined some good food might be provided. Once her immediate creature comforts were taken care of, she would perhaps be a little more curious about what the next step might be.  
When she left the room, Sherlock rose and the two men eyed one another.  
‘Mr Holmes, I hope you appreciate how much of a limb I have gone out on to secure these arrangements for Miss Adler. I’m sure you are aware that she is not the most popular person in American diplomatic circles. There are many in my government, as in yours, who would have gladly seen her dead.’  
Sherlock inclined his head, to acknowledge the veracity of this statement.  
‘I assure you, Consul, that once Miss Adler has taken up her place on your Witness Protection Program, you can consider your debt to me paid in full.’  
‘Oh, Mr Holmes, be assured that the ONLY reason Miss Adler is being extended the hospitality of the American people is to remove my government from the ignominious position of being in your debt. I cannot think of another reason that would be persuasive enough to achieve this end.’  
The consul’s smile, as he took Sherlock’s extended hand and shook it briefly, contained not a hint of warmth.  
‘Well, sir,’ Sherlock’s smile was equally wry, ‘I am glad we understand one another. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.’  
‘Miss Adler will be served dinner in her room and she will be leaving the Embassy at 4 a.m. tomorrow morning. The fewer people who are aware that she was ever here, the better. You, Mr Holmes, are welcome to dine with me this evening, in an hour, and take breakfast with me in the morning, after which I expect you have made your own arrangements for your return to the UK.’  
Sherlock nodded in affirmation, took his leave and left the reception room in order to go to his own room and prepare for dinner.  
ooOoo  
Irene was feeling much better. She was clean for the first time in weeks and she had enjoyed a light but pleasant meal, advised by her verbally economical man-servant that it may take her digestive system a while to adjust back to a normal western diet. Her room was spacious and comfortable, with antique furniture in the Art Nouveau style and a reproduction Victorian bathroom, en suite. Large French windows opened onto a broad veranda, which wrapped around the colonial-style building but was restricted from access to the rooms on either side by two matching ornate wrought iron barriers. She stood on the veranda, in a pale green silk kimono, leaning on the chest-high balustrade, contemplating the view. The consulate stood on a small hill, surrounded by wooded grounds, through which she could just glimpse a narrow road, running down to the lights of the city below. The air up here was cool and fresh, in contrast to the dusty, crowded streets of the city. It was from one of those streets that she had been snatched, all those weeks before.  
Her reflections were interrupted by a noise from the room behind her. She turned her head to see Sherlock walking out onto the veranda, dressed now in his more familiar garb of a dark suit and purple shirt, open at the neck. He came and stood beside her, placing his large hands on the balustrade and looking out at the view.  
She scrutinized his profile for a moment or two then spoke.  
‘So what exactly does your American friend have in mind for me?’  
He paused briefly, as if to gather his thoughts, before replying.  
‘You’ve been offered a place on a Witness Protection Program, in America. You’ll be given a new identity, a back story, papers, a place to live. You’ll be given a job, a whole new life. You’ll be able to start again, leave your past behind.’  
She took a few moments to consider these revelations. It was a lot to take in and she was not sure how she felt about having her future dictated in this way but the attraction of no longer being a fugitive did have a certain appeal.  
‘But what about the old Irene? What happens to her?’  
He replied without changing his position,  
‘She died, this evening – beheaded by Islamic fundamentalists scandalised by her salacious past.’  
He turned his gaze to look at her.  
‘Our American host will advise the British Secret Service of this sad fact, her file will be marked ‘Terminated’ and that will be the end of her.’  
She paused again, to assimilate this new information then asked,  
‘Why?’  
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.  
‘Why what?’  
‘Why would the Americans do this for me? It’s going to cost the American taxpayers a lot of money to secure my future safety and I am not exactly on their Christmas card list. In fact, they really wanted me dead, last time I looked.’  
He turned away from her and gave that wry smile again.  
‘Yes, well, if there is one person who is less popular with the American Secret Service than you, it’s me. And ever since I broke into your mobile phone and gave them all that juicy information you had squirreled away there, they have been somewhat beholden to me, a situation which they found extremely odious. So, I made them an offer they could not refuse – give you sanctuary and clear the debt. I think that they think they got a good deal. I could have kept them dangling on a hook for years.’  
He turned his gaze back on her.  
‘You see, we are more alike than you think. I, too, like to be able to rely on people when I need them and don’t much care how I achieve that, either.’  
She had to admit he had a point.  
‘Ok, so why?’  
she asked again. Once again, the quizzical eye brow rose but was followed almost immediately by a silent ‘oh’ and a brief nod of the head, as he turned his gaze once again to survey the view.  
‘Well, I don’t care to be in anyone’s debt, either, and I felt I owed you.’  
Now, she really was surprised. Had some vital aspect of their previous encounters escaped her notice? Was there something she had missed? Before she could even formulate a query to that effect, let alone voice it, he turned his whole body to face her and said  
‘So, Miss Adler, for you, it really is the end of the world and this really is the very last night. So, would you have dinner with me?’  
Her reply came unbidden and without conscious thought.  
‘I’m not hungry.’  
‘Good. Let’s have dinner.’  
His left arm encircled her waist and pulled her towards him, his left hand slipping under her hair and cradling the back of her head. She did not resist. Instead, she slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders and leaned into him. Just before their lips met, they both hesitated and gazed intently into each other’s eyes. Then their eyes closed, in unison, and, for the first time in her life, she let a man kiss her on the mouth. And she kissed him back.  
ooOoo  
The abrupt and strident sound of the ringing telephone broke into her dream and banished it forever. She reached out blindly in the dark and, miraculously, her hand closed on the unfamiliar shape of the handset. She pulled it to her ear and grunted.  
‘Miss Adler, this is your early morning wake up call. We will be leaving in approximately 30 minutes. Please meet me downstairs in 25.’  
The man’s voice was annoyingly bright and chipper for the ungodly time of day. The fluorescent dial of the bedside clock told her it was 3.30 in the morning and it was still pitch dark outside. She plonked the receiver back onto its cradle, where it rattled a bit before settling itself back into place. Then she rolled over onto her back and felt the body next to her shift to accommodate her movement. She turned her head and, although she could not see his face, in the dark, she knew he was awake and that he was looking at her.  
‘God, Moriarty was wrong about you,’  
she murmured as the memory of the night before sprang into sharp focus.  
‘On so many levels,’  
he replied, in his gruff morning voice. She leaned over and stroked his hair, gave him a light kiss on the forehead, then turned, sat up and, swinging herself upright in one smooth movement, walked naked into the bathroom and closed the door. He lay still and quiet, listening to the bathroom noises – heard the toilet flush and the shower go on. He was remembering the night before, too, and a rueful smile played upon his lips. Then he got out of bed and groped around in the dark for his discarded clothes, putting them on as he went. He found the switch of the bedside lamp and turned it on, then roughly straightened the bed clothes, as though drawing a veil over what had occurred there in the preceding hours. He then slipped out of the bedroom door, nodded briefly to the soldier in uniform stationed in the corridor outside, turned and walked along the carpet runner to his own room, three doors down. Once inside, with the door closed, he peeled off his clothes again, dropping them on the furniture as he made his way to his own bathroom and turned on the shower.  
ooOoo  
When she entered the reception room, wearing the fresh abaya and niqab provided for her by the consulate staff, he was already there, dressed in a clean shirt and his ubiquitous suit, hair still damp and slicked back off his face, chatting to the soldier in desert camouflage. They were grinning and laughing in that annoying blokey way that men do, which seemed so out of character for him – but he was doing a lot of things out of character at the moment, she thought. The soldier turned and said good morning. She recognised his voice as that of the driver of the getaway vehicle from the night before. Then she understood the context of the blokey exchange. They had been remembering the crazy escape stunt that they had pulled off together.  
‘If you are ready, Miss Adler, we would like to leave right away,’  
the solder said, inclining his head, respectfully.  
‘Yes, I think I’m all packed,’  
she replied, flippantly. The soldier turned and gave Sherlock a casual salute, with a ‘see you around’ edge to it. Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded his reply. As the soldier moved towards the door, Sherlock turned to face her, reached out and took her hand.  
‘Goodbye, Miss Adler,’  
he said, raising her hand to his mouth and pressing it to his lips. They stayed in that position for several moments, holding each other’s gaze, exchanging volumes of silent communication. Then she replied,  
‘Goodbye, Mr Holmes.’  
He released her hand. She dipped her head, turned and followed the soldier from the room. She did not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Whether Irene stays in the Witness Protection Program, remains to be seen. Frankly, I think she is far too self-determining to accept the imposition but she is willing to go along with it for the sake of expediency. She can always change her mind, at a later date!


End file.
